


The Ofrenda

by BabyCharmander



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Betrayal, Drama, Friendship, Gen, Universe Alteration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:35:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23439286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BabyCharmander/pseuds/BabyCharmander
Summary: Twenty one years after his death, Héctor finds that his photo has finally been placed on an ofrenda. Ecstatic, he hurries across the marigold bridge... and finds himself in a hauntingly familiar city that is not Santa Cecilia, in a place that is not a home.Something strange is going on.
Comments: 12
Kudos: 109





	The Ofrenda

**Author's Note:**

> Hiya folks! I'm still around! This if a fic I started waaay back in summer of 2018, and this year I finally decided to brush the dust off of it to finish it. 
> 
> HUGE thanks to Jaywings, Tomatosoupful, and Uncuentofriki for beta-reading this for me!
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

It was going to work this time. It hadn’t worked last year, when he’d worn a skirt, or the year before, when he’d worn a blouse, but it would work _this_ year—he was certain. This year, he wore a _wig_ , and a dress, and had Tía Yolanda help him out with some makeup.

He had to look like _somebody_.

Surely.

But as Héctor got closer and closer to the check-in gate, he felt a nervous fluttering where his stomach used to be. He’d waited _all year_ for this. What if it didn’t work, _again_? What if he had to go another year without seeing his Imelda? His _Coco_? She was an adult now, older than he’d been when he’d married Imelda. Was _she_ married now? Engaged? He didn’t know—he had no way of knowing.

It had been twenty-one years since he’d died.

Twenty-one years since he’d last seen his family.

He couldn’t bear going another year without catching so much as a _glimpse_ of them.

“Next!”

Héctor gave a start, then shook himself bodily. _Basta_ , that was enough of that. As Ernesto would say, it was showtime.

Putting on a calm expression, Héctor strode up to the counter and smoothed out his dress. “ _¡Hola_ , _señor!_ ” he said, using the same falsetto voice he’d learned to fake in previous years. “You don’t have to worry about my photo. My family _always_ —”

“Er, wait—Héctor? Héctor Rivera?”

Immediately his non-existent stomach gave a jolt. The border agent, who had been shuffling through a massive stack of files containing names, copies of photos, and who-knows-what-else, was now adjusting his glasses as he stared at him.

“You _are_ Señor Rivera, _sí_?” the agent repeated.

Quickly feigning outrage, Héctor put a hand to his chest and reared back. “Ex- _cuse_ -me, _señor_! I am the very honorable Señorita—ah—” And immediately he faltered, blanking on the false name he’d chosen earlier.

But the agent only waved him off. “You can drop the act now, Señor Rivera. Listen—”

“No, you are _mistaken_!” Héctor cried, hoping the way his voice shook passed for outrage rather than desperation. “My name is _not_ —”

“ _Señor_ , please, we have people waiting—”

No, no, he’d waited too long for this, he wasn’t going to back down _now_! “So why won’t you let me—”

“ _SEÑOR_! _You have a photo at another gate_!”

Héctor opened his mouth to reply, only to freeze as the words sank in. “... _¿Qué?_ ” he managed to squeak.

The agent, while clearly relieved he’d gotten through to Héctor, still looked annoyed. “You’re lucky I’m used to dealing with you, or you may have been thrown out of line.” He shook his head, rubbing his face. “But I’ve been informed that you have a photo on an _ofrenda_ in another city. So, _por favor_ , take that disguise _off_ and get to the gate!”

Héctor could barely hear him. “Another… city? My photo?” he murmured, dropping the fake voice. “I-I had wondered if they’d moved, or lost my photo, but I’d never thought—!”

“There will be more information when you get there. We have an _alebrije_ ready to take you to the proper destination. Now _por favor_ , Héctor, get going!”

While Héctor was still in a dazed fog, something blunt struck him from behind, and he found himself falling onto the back of a bat-winged, purple-and-red goat _alebrije_. It bleated as it carried him away from the gate, and flew him off the nearby ledge.

“ _Feliz Dia de los Muertos,_ Héctor!” the agent called after him, and it finally sunk in.

Whipping off his dress and swapping his wigs in record speed, Héctor sat up as straight as he could, throwing his arms out and belting out the loudest, most triumphant _grito_ he’d called out in years.

The _alebrije_ , to Héctor’s delight, took him to the very front of the line at an enormous gate with an equally enormous bridge—even bigger than the one to Santa Cecilia. At first the people in line were quite angry to see him cutting in front of them, but the crossing agent was quick to let them know that this was supposed to happen.

Wiping away the remains of his makeup, Héctor stepped off the _alebrije_ , which trotted up to a blanket off to the side of the counter and curled up. “ _Gracias_ ,” he said to it, adjusting his goatee and faded neckcloth as he stepped up to the counter. “I-I believe you were expecting me?”

For the briefest of moments his breath caught in his chest—what if this had just been a fluke? What if this was just a big mistake, and Imelda or Coco hadn’t _really_ found his photo? What if this was just another rotten twist of fate, like that rotten _chorizo_ —

“Héctor Rivera, yes?” the agent said, glancing quickly between him and the folder in front of her. She then did a double-take, her tired eyes widening in shock as she stared at something in the file that Héctor could not see. Terror rattled in his ribs before the agent breathed out, “Oh, _wow_.”

“Is—is there a problem?” he asked, tugging at the tattered pink sleeve of his charro suit.

“No, _señor_ , I just had no idea you had a connection with—” She shook her head, clearing her throat. “Well, you’re clear to go. Your photo is on your… friend’s _ofrenda_.”

Héctor’s stomach dropped. Not “your wife’s _ofrenda_ ” or “your daughter’s _ofrenda_.”

“Wait, wait, wait, my _friend’s_ —?”

“ _Sí_ ,” the agent affirmed, stacking the papers together and setting the folder onto a teetering stack to her right. “The _ofrenda_ of Señor Ernesto de la Cruz.”

Immediately the people behind him began to murmur: “Ernesto?” “That singer?” “The famous songwriter? But how?” “This guy’s clothes are so ragged, it can’t be—”

Before Héctor could respond, the agent ushered him forward, and he stumbled out to the platform before the bridge.

This was a lot to take in.

Not Imelda, not Coco. _Ernesto_ had put him on his _ofrenda_. Why now, though? Why in a totally different place from Santa Cecilia? Was he traveling still? Did he move? Why was Ernesto putting his photo on an _ofrenda_ before his family did?

Another skeleton nearly bumped into him, and he placed a hand to his head, idly letting his legs carry himself forward as he tried to piece this together.

Had something… happened to Imelda and Coco? No—no, that couldn't be right. He would know if that was the case—he’d be alerted right away. Had _they_ moved? He supposed that was possible—it was strange to imagine Imelda going anywhere else, but perhaps she had moved the _zapateria_ she’d mentioned in her letters to another town. A larger city, with better business. She did have to take care of the family on her own, so… yes, that made sense.

But still, why was Ernesto the one putting up the photo? Sure, he was his friend—his _hermano_ , even—but…

Wait, what if Imelda and Coco had moved in with Ernesto? Wait, wait, no, that was ridiculous. While Imelda never _hated_ Ernesto, the two hadn’t exactly gotten along perfectly. So perhaps Ernesto was visiting Imelda and Coco? Maybe he’d somehow found the photo he’d thought he’d lost, and brought it over to their house, and set up an _ofrenda_?

Héctor’s non-existent heart leapt at the thought. Yes, _yes_! That had to be it! He’d find his way to Imelda’s house, and finally get to see her, and Coco, and Ernesto!

But then the murmurs he’d heard behind him came back to him.

Ernesto… he’d been singing Héctor’s songs for all these years—become a household name by this point. All the newly-dead were talking about him, and his music had spread like wildfire across the Land of the Dead. It _hurt_ to hear those songs played everywhere, especially _that_ one, but… Imelda had to know, didn’t she? Ernesto had to have told her that he’d died—she’d let him play his songs, for some reason…

_Ay_ , it was too much to take in. He’d have to sort through it when he got there.

Speaking of—where _was_ he now?

Shaking his head to bring himself back to the present, Héctor glanced around, and gave a start at seeing himself standing atop a floor of _cempasúchil_ petals, with an enormous drop off to his right side. With a yelp he jumped to his left, bumping into a young woman. “ _¡Lo siento!_ ” he cried, holding up his hands defensively and glancing warily back at the edge of the bridge. _Right_ , _watch where you’re going_.

As he continued to move forward, he looked down at his bare feet (he’d lost his left shoe back in February, and there was no point in wearing just one), amazed to see the petals easily supporting them. He looked up at the people around him, and back down at the bridge, and at the border in the distance behind him, and—

_Dios,_ he was _crossing the bridge!_

The joy of it hit him even harder than the initial excitement had, and he didn’t realize until his vision began to swim that he was crying. Frantically he wiped at his eye sockets, scrubbing at them with a frayed sleeve, trying in vain to steady his breathing. He was aware that people were probably staring at him, but he still gave a stuttering gasp when someone placed a hand on his shoulder.

“You okay, _amigo_?” one man asked, looking at him in concern.

For a moment Héctor couldn’t quite remember how to talk, but even if he could, the joy seemed to be drowning him. After taking a few deep breaths, he finally managed to gasp out: “I—I’m going to see my wife.”

Immediately the man smiled in understanding. “Aaaah. First time crossing, eh?”

He nodded, not trusting himself to speak again.

“It’s always a hard wait, but you’ll get to see her now, and every year from now on.” Giving his shoulder a friendly shake, the man stepped away. “Have a good time!”

Swallowing, he nodded again and scrubbed at his eye sockets. Briefly he thought that he should be careful to look nice for Imelda and Coco, but they probably wouldn’t be able to see him, would they? _No, of course not,_ idiota _. You didn’t see the dead come to life every_ Dia de Muertos _, did you?_

The thought made him laugh, which made him nearly start crying again. _Ay_ , he was a mess. A very, very happy mess.

As he reached the highest point of the bridge, he could see an enormous graveyard stretched out before him, and a huge city beyond that. It seemed vaguely familiar, but then, he’d traveled so much before he died, _every_ place felt familiar to him. Every place felt the _same_.

He felt a pang in his chest as he realized he wouldn’t get to see Santa Cecilia, but then, that was a small sacrifice to make to get to see his family again.

Looking out over the graveyard, which was bathed in a welcoming orange light, he had to wonder what city he’d been led to. The crossing agent had neglected to say—he probably should have, but maybe Héctor had thrown him off with his antics. (He supposed he probably deserved that one.) Regardless, he was going to have a time finding Imelda, Coco, and Ernesto in a place like this.

...How _was_ he supposed to find them?

It struck him with a burst of anxiety and fear. How on earth was he supposed to find his family in a city this _huge_?

All around him, people were confidently walking one way or another as they reached the end of the bridge—had they lived here? Was he going to have to ask around?

Looking around him frantically, he scrubbed his face of the remaining tears and tried to focus. “ _D-disculpe,_ anyone, I—h-how do I—how am I supposed to—”

A man turned back toward him, and he recognized him as the man who had been friendly to him a few minutes ago. “How are you supposed to find your family?” he asked, and Héctor responded with a nod and a hopeful smile. “Easy, _amigo_ , just follow the petals.”

“Petals?” Héctor looked down at the petals beneath his feet, but the man shook his head.

“No, no, at the end of the bridge.” He pointed to where the bridge met the ground. “Do you see a trail of petals?”

Sure enough, there was a narrow trail of petals starting at the foot of the bridge and leading through the graveyard. “ _Sí_ , I do, but—”

“You can only see the petals that lead you home. Follow them, and you’ll be fine.”

Héctor heaved a sigh of relief. “ _Gracias_. I was worried for a moment there.”

“It’s all right, _amigo._ Everyone’s new to death at some point.” With that, the man hurried ahead before Héctor could correct him.

It bothered him for a moment, but he shook himself. What did it matter if he’d been dead for twenty years or a hundred? He was going _home_!

As he approached the foot of the bridge, he stopped when he saw what appeared to be a barrier of some sort. Yet other skeletons were walking right on through as though it hadn’t been there at all. Watching in curiosity, he found that as people stepped off the bridge, they became vaguely translucent and tinted an orange shade—the same shade as the _cempasúchil_ petals he’d been walking on.

Héctor looked back at the barrier, feeling a familiar twist in his gut. Even though he’d passed the border, even though he’d crossed the bridge, a part of him still wondered if there had still been some mistake—if he wouldn’t be able to pass through this barrier. But, taking a deep and completely unnecessary breath, he stepped through it, blinking as an orange glow enveloped him.

He’d… he’d made it!

Letting out a wild cheer that startled several people around him, he bolted down the narrow marigold path as fast as his feet would allow. Unfortunately the graveyard was exceedingly crowded, and he had to force himself to slow down before he bumped into anyone or anything.

All around him were families, both living and dead, gathering around graves, talking, laughing, and carrying offerings. Not long ago, Héctor would listen to the Remembered with barely-concealed envy as they talked about how wonderful it was to catch up with their families. But now things were different—tomorrow, he’d be right there with them, sharing _new_ stories about his daughter and his wife, for once.

But he had to focus on the petals. Keeping his eyes to the ground, he continued following the narrow trail as it _finally_ took him out of the cramped graveyard and into the city.

The city was _big_. He’d seen it from a distance, but now that he was actually walking down its streets, it felt even more enormous.

And familiar.

He'd traveled to many cities during his last fateful tour with Ernesto, though. Perhaps this was just one of them, and he couldn’t fully recognize it because it had been two decades. A lot could change in that amount of time. But not _too_ much. He knew this place. He knew it—!

As he continued following the petals down the street, he barely noticed the sound of something loud and rumbling until some massive vehicle was barreling toward him. With a frantic yell, Héctor dove out of the street, breathing heavily as he watched the thing swerve down the road and turn a corner. Right, cars. Hadn’t seen one of those in a while.

If he’d still had a heart, it would have been hammering in his chest, but any residual fear was quickly washed out by annoyance at the sound of laughter. A few skeletons stood nearby, giggling at him, and he gave them a frown as he stood up and brushed himself off. “I’m fine, I know what I’m doing,” he muttered, and looked back for the petal trail, which was, fortunately, unaffected by the passing vehicle.

“Newly dead?” one woman said with a laugh, and he looked away from her. “You know those things can’t hurt you, right?”

“They go right through you!” the other woman called out.

Well… that would’ve been good to know before. Héctor gave a tight nod. “ _Gracias_ ,” he said, only to pause, turning to face them fully. They were both dressed in fancy clothing, carrying baskets full of bottles and _pan dulce_. “ _Perdoname_ , _señoras_ —could you tell me what city this is?”

That only caused them to break out into another fit of giggles, and briefly he wondered how much of the contents of those bottles they’d already consumed. “This is _Mexico_ City!”

The name hit him like a bolt of lightning.

But the women took no notice, stumbling down the street in the opposite direction, and leaving Héctor standing there in horror.

It took him a moment to realize he was reaching for something in an inner coat pocket—one of the two things he’d had on him when he died, and that he fought to protect from the elements at all times. One was his photo.

The other was a train ticket out of Mexico City.

Forcing himself to draw his hand back to his side, he shook himself bodily. No, he didn’t need to look at that again. He knew where he was. He knew the ticket was still in his pocket. He knew the train station was somewhere in this hellishly massive city with too many people and _fondas_ that sold rotten food—

_Basta—_ STOP IT _!_

Héctor ignored the phantom pains that were building in his nonexistent abdomen, swallowing as he forced his legs to move forward, continuing to follow the petals.

Of course, Ernesto would wind up moving here. He’d always talked about how much he loved this city. Héctor just… wished it hadn’t been the city that he’d wound up… where he…

Drawing in as deep a breath as he could, he held it until his ribs hurt, then breathed out slowly. _You’ll have to get used to it, then,_ amigo, he thought, focusing on the petals again. _If you want to see Imelda and Coco and Ernesto again, you’ll have to get used to coming here._

Or hope they move elsewhere.

It didn’t matter, anyway—he was already dead. Wishing he’d died elsewhere, or that his _familia_ had moved elsewhere, wouldn’t change anything. What mattered was that he’d be seeing them again. That was all that mattered.

Even so, he wished these awful petals would lead him out of these terrible streets soon.

* * *

_“There, Héctor, do you see it?!”_

_“No, Ernesto, I can’t see the building we’re standing directly in front of.” The comment earned him a playful shove, and he grinned._ “ _Is that where we’ll be performing?”_

_“Of course! ...Eventually.”_

_“Eventually?”_

_“_ Sí _. Tonight we’re performing at the cantina next to our hotel on the other side of town.”_

_Héctor sputtered, resting his guitar and suitcase on the street. “Wh—?! Then—then what was the point of dragging our stuff out here?!”_

_Ernesto smiled, wrapping an arm around Héctor’s shoulders. “Because one day,_ hermanito _—one day we’ll be so famous this theater will be begging—_ begging! _—for us to play there! Can’t you see it? Ernesto_ y _Héctor, performing for one night only—”_

_“Okay, okay,_ hermano _.” Héctor returned the gesture, wrapping his arm around Ernesto’s shoulders with a half-smile. “But let’s save the daydreaming for_ after _we’ve dropped our luggage off at the hotel.”_

_“These are not daydreams, Héctor.” And Ernesto gave him a look—one Héctor could never forget. It was a look of such determination, it was vaguely frightening. “Soon, very soon now, they will be_ reality. _”_

_“..._ Sí _, Ernesto. I’m sure they will be.”_

Héctor absently rubbed his shoulder as he stared up at the theater, then down at the thin trail of _cempasúchil_ leading up to its doors.

“You were right, _hermano_ ,” he breathed. “It _wasn’t_ all daydreams… You did it.”

_With_ my _music_ , a bitter part of him added, but he swallowed it down.

It really shouldn’t have come as such a surprise, given how he’d heard of Ernesto’s success even in the Land of the Dead. But standing where he’d stood all those years ago and looking up at the theater they’d only _dreamed_ of performing in—that Ernesto was now actually performing in—was something else entirely. It left him with a pang of nostalgia in his chest, not to mention no small amount of confusion.

The petals were supposed to lead him home. These led to the theater.

A strange place for an _ofrenda_.

Perhaps Ernesto was celebrating the holiday in private here with Imelda and Coco, in some back room. Knowing Ernesto, his schedule was probably packed, and he’d be performing even on the holiday, so this was probably the only place where he was able to celebrate without being late for a performance.

So long as Imelda and Coco were there as well, Héctor didn’t care.

Ignoring the oddity of the situation, ignoring the increasingly likely idea that his family may not _actually_ be here, ignoring the feeling in his gut that told him that something was very strange about setting up an _ofrenda_ in a theater, he stepped through the doors.

Quite literally—his translucent body phased through them as though they weren’t there at all, leaving him with an oddly cold feeling in his bones.

The theater was massive, luxurious, and already crowded; there were people everywhere in the foyer, excitedly chattering about Ernesto de la Cruz and his special _Dia de los Muertos_ concert. So that much was true—he had a performance today, and was probably having a quiet celebration to himself in a private room in the back beforehand.

Part of him wanted to stay in the foyer for a moment, to look to see if Imelda and Coco were there (what did Coco look like? How tall had she gotten? Would there be a man by her side, now?), but something within him told him that he needed to follow the petal trail, and quickly.

The petals led around the foyer and through a door marked _no entry_. On the other side of the door was a long, curved hallway, built to wrap around the main part of the theater. The trail led him further and further down, past frantic stagehands that were shouting to each other about last minute adjustments to the set. Héctor paid them no mind, barely noticing when he phased through a performer that suddenly stepped out of a nearby door. His eyes were on the trail of petals, his mind already at the end of it and trying to picture what he would find.

Just as he was starting to wonder if the hallway was endless, the trail of petals curved to the left, and under a door emblazoned with a star, and a sign reading “de la Cruz.”

Well, this was it.

Drawing in a deep breath, Héctor stepped through the door.

To his confusion, there was no _ofrenda_ immediately in sight. Instead, he was greeted with a large vanity, a mirror that did not show his reflection, a rack of flashy, beautiful outfits that would have probably cost him several months’ wages each, a table covered in letters and gifts, a guitar case, and, finally, a curtain that blocked off a corner of the room.

Had there been a mistake? Could this really have been some cruel joke the universe was playing on him, letting him through security, across the bridge, back into the Land of the Living, and all across a far-too-large city, only to lead him to an empty dressing room?

Looking back toward the door, he gave a start—no, the petals were still leading further inside… and behind the curtain.

Héctor crept forward, holding in his breath as he stepped through the curtain to find…

...a pitifully small table, upon which sat a bottle of tequila, two shot glasses, a single candle, half a dozen orange petals, and, in the center, a simple photo lying flat on the table.

The breath held in his chest cavity burst out of him in the form of unexpected laughter. All of that agony waiting in line, fearing he’d have to go another year without seeing his family, worrying that the fact that he’d gotten through was a mistake, following an endless petal trail halfway across an enormous city, and _this_ was what he got?

Ernesto was famous— _the_ most famous singer in all of Mexico, and had more wealth than Héctor had ever known in his life _and_ death—and all he had to give Héctor was this pitiful excuse of an _ofrenda_ , set up two decades after his death? To top it off, Ernesto wasn’t even _here_.

And neither were Imelda and Coco.

It wasn’t until the makeshift _ofrenda_ in front of him began to blur that he realized his laughter had turned to tears.

_Dios_ , what kind of cruel joke _was_ this? Was this his punishment for not trying to return home sooner—for leaving home at all? For dying away from his family? For trying to run off on Ernesto? To finally give him a scrap of hope that maybe something— _something_ would go right for once in his miserable, lonely afterlife, and then—?!

Basta, _ungrateful_ cabrón, he thought, scrubbing his face with his sleeve. _This is better than what you’ve gotten every other year. Your_ tíos _and_ primos _don’t even get to have_ this. _At least you can bring something to share with them._

But… _ay_ , he would trade the finest wine, the sweetest _pan dulce_ , the most extravagant offering just for a _glimpse_ of his family again. Or even if Ernesto would just—

The door swung open.

Abruptly Héctor stopped crying, spinning around as a familiar voice snarled at someone in the hallway: “I _don’t care_! I don’t care, _señor_ , so long as it’s set up before I walk out on stage! And don’t you dare step foot into this room again unless it’s a _real_ emergency!”

_SLAM._

“... _Neto_?” Héctor breathed, shakily stepping past the curtain.

The charro suit was such a clean, bright, glittery blue it nearly blinded him. Ernesto’s head dipped as he ran his hand over his hair and heaved a sigh. “Sorry, old friend,” he said, and turned around to face him. “I hope you’ll forgive that rude interruption.”

Héctor staggered backward, clutching at his chest in shock. Could Ernesto actually—?!

And Ernesto immediately stepped through Héctor and up to his vanity.

Héctor shuddered at the feeling of _wrongness_ that rushed through his bones at the—well, not touch, but the sensation of being passed through. Well, that answered _that_ question.

Given he was intangible, he had to wonder what it was, then, that made Ernesto pause and look over his shoulder. Whatever it was seemed to pass, however, and Ernesto plucked up a comb.

Taking a few steps closer to Ernesto, Héctor watched as he fixed himself up. He’d lost the more youthful look Héctor had known when they were still alive, but was still very much in his prime. If his face bore any wrinkles or blemishes, they were likely covered with some of the makeup that was scattered about the vanity. He did, however, have gray hairs gracing his sideburns.

Héctor ran a skeletal hand through his own youthful wig.

“Now that that’s taken care of…”

Ernesto stepped behind the curtain, stood before the little ofrenda, and stared at the photo.

Curious and mildly numb, Héctor watched as Ernesto then picked up the bottle of tequila, stared at it for a long moment, then filled the two shot glasses sitting on the table. When Ernesto picked up one glass, Héctor reached out to pick up the other, finding it solid beneath his phalanges. When he lifted it off the table, the original glass did not move, but a spirit copy of it appeared in his hand, and he stared at it, turning it this way and that. Huh. He'd always wondered how that worked.

It was a moment before he realized Ernesto was completely silent, staring down at Héctor's photo on the table. He took the time to examine it: a faded photograph of... himself, of course, as well as Ernesto, the two of them side-by-side and posing with their guitars. In a flash the memory returned of when they'd had the photo taken—it had been done so they could use it for promotional posters in the future, for when they became famous.

Heh. When _they_ became famous.

"We... would have made such a team, _hermanito_ ," Ernesto said, and Héctor gave a start, facing him again. Ernesto reached down to pick up the photo, and only now did it strike Héctor that he was being mourned, even as he stood beside his friend.

It was a bizarre disconnect, unlike anything he'd ever felt before.

"You could have been here beside me, you know, on that stage."

The pang of nostalgia hit his chest, and he swallowed. While he missed his Imelda and Coco most of all, a smaller part of him _did_ miss performing alongside his best friend... albeit, more in the days when they still played in Santa Cecilia, not the tour. Compared to everything else, the tour felt like a long, repetitive haze.

"If you only hadn't..." Ernesto trailed off, his voice choked.

"...hadn't eaten that rotten _chorizo_ ," Héctor finished, and barely resisted the urge to knock back his shot. He would wait, though; he may as well, until Ernesto offered the toast.

As he watched Ernesto, waiting for him to continue, he couldn't help but wonder what was going through his friend's mind. He was standing rigidly still, and if Héctor hadn't known better, he would have thought he was just nervous about the upcoming performance. But Ernesto had never feared those... no, he was still staring into that photo, and... his face was growing pale, his hands shaking.

Taking a step back, Héctor glanced around the room again—they were standing in a corner, blocked off from the rest of the room by a curtain. He could understand the need for a private moment, but...

The thick curtain, the hastily-assembled _ofrenda_ , the _look_ on Ernesto's face...

Something was wrong.

Ernesto wasn't choked up out of grief, Héctor realized, a strange emotion welling up within his chest.

He was working up the will to _confess_ something.

_Knock knock knock._

Both Héctor and Ernesto jumped, nearly dropping their respective glasses as the door creaked open. " _Señor_?" a voice called urgently. "You have five minutes until showtime." The speaker then ducked back out of the room, and the door closed again.

All at once Ernesto seemed to regain his composure, even as Héctor felt his phantom heart still pounding, and for a moment he worried that Ernesto would step out without saying... whatever he'd meant to say. The man set the photo down and sighed, smoothing a hand through his hair, banishing all traces of his anxiety from before.

"Well, you heard the man," he said, holding up the glass. "I suppose I'll make it quick."

Ernesto faced to the side, and it almost seemed as though he could see Héctor standing before him. Yet Héctor could see that his friend's gaze was unfocused—he was clearly imagining Héctor being there, not truly aware of his presence.

Sighing, Héctor copied Ernesto and held out his glass. No harm in pretending as well, though he couldn't hide his disappointment that this meeting with his friend was already being cut short.

"To our friendship," Ernesto murmured. "I truly would have moved heaven and earth for you, _mi amigo_. _Salud._ "

They moved their glasses forward in time, though there was no satisfying _clink_. Instead, the spirit copy briefly clipped through the physical glass before they both knocked back their shots.

Héctor was taken aback by the strength of the flavor, like nothing the Land of the Dead had to offer him. His eyes watered, and he coughed, choking down the tequila and striking his sternum. The last time he'd tasted something _this_ strong was when he'd been alive, and he'd had that final toast with that awful, bitter tequila Ernesto had offered him. He was so distracted by the taste and burn of the alcohol that he nearly missed what Ernesto said next.

"Heh. Not to worry, there's... no poison this time, my friend."

Rolling his eyes, Héctor wiped at his mouth. It may as well have been poison, for how...

He ran through the words in his mind again, suddenly feeling strangely hollow.

What did he mean, _this time_?

Héctor looked up, hoping to see a familiar smile creasing Ernesto's face—the same he would get whenever he told a really terrible or offensive joke—but instead he was staring down at the glass seriously, intensely, his chest heaving, hands trembling.

The shot glass slipped out of Héctor's hand, shattering against the floor _,_ but all he could hear was the argument they'd had that night—one of many, when the homesickness gripped him so strongly that he couldn't stand it, but Ernesto's grip on "their" dream had been stronger. Except _that_ night, Héctor's will had finally won over, and Ernesto had been _so_ angry... until he wasn't.

He'd been angry before. Even violent, once. Yet it had never struck Héctor as strange that suddenly Ernesto was neither—suddenly perfectly happy to let him leave, to end with a toast (with terrible, _bitter_ tequila, so much more bitter than normal), to walk him to the train station. He'd been too happy that their friendship had not ended to notice.

Too happy, until his stomach wrenched in agony, the blood filled his throat, the darkness engulfed him.

A sharp shatter of glass cut through his numb shock, and he was back in the dressing room, Ernesto glaring down at the glass he'd smashed against the floor, his teeth bared, eyes wide.

"You brought it on _yourself_ ," he snarled, and stepped through the curtain. There he drew in a deep breath, let it out, lifted up the guitar case, and walked calmly out the door as though nothing had happened.

As though he hadn't just admitted to...

Héctor's mind spun, trying to reconcile it, but suddenly it made sense, it all made sense, why Ernesto had sung his songs, why he'd never given him credit, why Imelda and Coco never put up his photo, why he'd never gotten to see his wife or his daughter because of course _Ernesto would never tell them that he'd... that he'd...!_

He found a glowing bottle of tequila in his hand, and smashed it against the table with a wild yell.

Yet even the sight of the shattered glass, the dripping alcohol drenching the spirit copy of the photo, couldn't calm the agonized rage that engulfed his soul, that filled him from the inside out, overflowing in the form of a blazing heat and agonized tears.

Before he realized it he was charging through the curtain, the door, and down the curved hallway that Ernesto was calmly walking down, not a trace of shame in his posture. Without another thought, Héctor let loose a wild snarl and lunged at him, his hands aiming for his throat and grasping nothing, phasing through Ernesto's pristine collar as Héctor crashed to the ground. Every vile curse he could think of came spilling out of his mouth, his voice both shrill and hoarse with anger as he tried desperately to grasp at some part of him, only clawing at the carpet and punching the floor.

"YOU _POISONED_ ME!" he shrieked, praying with all he had that his voice would carry through to the living world. "I TRUSTED YOU! YOU WERE MY _FRIEND_!"

While his hands never reached Ernesto, while the living could not hear the dead... Ernesto stopped in the hallway, suddenly looking back, his eyes wide. Yet his fearful gaze never met Héctor's narrowed, reddened one, and he resumed walking ahead, toward the backstage. But the confidence had gone from his posture, instead replaced with a prickling paranoia.

If that's how it would be, Héctor would take what he could get.

Scrambling back up to his feet, he bolted in front of Ernesto, walking backwards to keep ahead of him, reaching out as though to clutch his friend's collar. "How could you _do_ this to me?! I just wanted to go home! I just wanted to see my _family_! I would have written you all the songs in the world! All of them, Ernesto, _hermano_ —" His voice cracked, and Ernesto pushed ahead, ducking through the doors as he was surrounded by people, one man handing him a hat, one woman making a last-minute adjustment to his outfit, another asking him if he was feeling well.

Héctor could have charged after him, continued to haunt him throughout that wretched performance as he sang that warped version of Coco's song, but instead the weight of it all finally dragged him down to his knees. He tugged at his hair, as though he could tear it out. He felt like he could scream, but he didn't, for fear he would never stop. Some distant part of him recalled how he felt when he'd walked down that marigold bridge, which couldn't have been more than an hour earlier, but it felt like a lifetime ago. His world had seemed so much happier, so much brighter then, and now...

He wished he'd never crossed the bridge. He should have kept trying to cross over into Santa Cecilia, never gotten on that _alebrije_ , should have turned right around the second he realized he was in this wretched city, he should have _never gone on the tour_ —

Thunderous applause erupted from the theater, music blared, and Héctor clamped his hands over his head.

He couldn't do this. He couldn't stay here. But he couldn't cross the bridge—he couldn't face anyone else, not yet. He was afraid of what he would do if he did. The thought of seeing other souls milling about the graveyard, laughing, collecting gifts, watching their families, while he had been saddled with the revelation that his best friend, his _brother_ , had become the reason he hadn't seen his family in _twenty years_ —

It crashed over him all over again, and he couldn't hold back the scream this time, only covering his mouth to muffle it. If there was another soul in the theater, they never heard him over the music and applause.

He wasn't sure how long he sat there, but it was long enough for his voice to give out, for any spirit left in him to evaporate. The emptiness in him was neither gnawing nor numbing—it was simply nothing, like he truly was a ghost drifting aimlessly in the mortal plane.

Not knowing what else he could possibly do at this point and not finding it in him to care either way, he rose to his feet, and phased through the wall, stepping into the theater. Whether he did it for a last glance at his friend, or a last chance at haunting him, he didn't know. He never got the chance to find it out.

Before he could take in the spectacle of the theater, before he could register just how truly grand the stage was, or just what song Ernesto was singing (mangling, bastardizing), there were two sounds in short succession:

_Snap._

_CRASH._

The theater, so thunderously loud moments before, was utterly silent save for the faint ringing from the giant bell that had crashed on the top of the stage. This silence lasted until the curtain fell, and the theater exploded into chaos.

In the cacophony of screams, shouts, and hurried conversations that followed, Héctor found himself breathing, his legs moving, carrying him up to the stage and past the dense curtain. Women in elaborate dresses were hurrying away from the wreckage while the stage crew were trying to lift the bell. Several were screaming out a name.

" _Ernesto_?" Héctor breathed, scrambling up the stage as the efforts of the stage crew grew more frantic. On the opposite side of the bell, some of them managed to pry part of it upward, while another man peered underneath and shone a light. Only seconds later, he cried out, his face growing pale, the flashlight clattering to the ground.

Héctor bolted up towards the bell, tempted to phase through it to see for himself, but stopped himself; if the stagehand's reaction was anything to go by, he probably shouldn't take a glance. But then... was it _really_...?

" _Señor!_ " someone cried in despair. "Señor de la Cruz...!"

"He's dead, isn't he," another murmured, voice wavering. "El Señor de la Cruz is _dead_."

"N-no, he can't... we have to get him out—!"

Unlike the others who were losing themselves from the shocking turn of events, Héctor found himself regaining his senses. Distantly, his heart ached at the thought of what had happened—at the thought that something this horrific could happen to Ernesto—but before the grief could fully register, another thought struck him.

If Ernesto had been killed... if he was truly dead... then...

Héctor looked back toward the closed stage curtain, out in the direction of the graveyard he'd come from, then looked back to look at the bell.

Ernesto was no longer there, but Héctor knew _exactly_ where he would be.

Before he had time to question himself, he was already bolting past the curtain, off the stage, and out of the theater, charging back down the path of petals from whence he'd come. He was no longer sure what emotion he was feeling, but one thing he knew for certain:

Ernesto had some answers to give him.


End file.
